


You and Me and Baby Makes Three

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [16]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adoption, Baby Barton - Freeform, Boys are bad at flirting, Daddy Clint, Francis Barton - Freeform, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-11-30 13:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11465034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Clint and Phil are finally starting to get their act together when one teeny, tiny roadblock gets thrown their way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> * Trigger warning for behind-the-scenes suicide - nothing graphic but there is a note that's read. Please read with caution if this may trigger you.

It takes almost two years for Phil to find out about TAHITI, to understand. It takes another three months for him to fight his way through the tropical vacation bullshit and remember what was real. There's anger there, terrible, burning anger with his friend Nick, who had authorized and justified the means to bring him back, and the subsequent betrayal by his friend Melinda May, who was supposed to have his back and had instead been watching and reporting behind it. In that moment when things finally click, when all is revealed and he is left standing in the rubble of his own false-life, he realizes that there have only ever really been two people who have been there for him, who have never once turned away since the moment they'd come to an understanding of their own. 

He leaves the Bus and never once looks back, runs to Strike Team Delta and finds himself welcomed into the arms of the entire Avengers team. When he steps into the Tower for the first time since his resurrection Tony Stark is stunned speechless, Natasha Romanov actually sheds a tear. It's Clint though, strong, resilient, beautiful Clint who surprises him the most. The kiss the archer plants on him is one for the books, and Clint doesn't let him out of his sight after that for the next six weeks. 

Slowly things return to normal, or at least their approximation of normal. Phil acts as the Avengers' liason to SHEILD on the condition that he interacts only with Deputy Director Maria Hill, and finds he enjoys active duty work controlling ground cover during frequent Avengers' battles. There's still paperwork, but after dying and coming back to life, finding out that he's got alien DNA swimming in his system that makes him fitter and stronger than he's been in some time, he's happy to be a doing a bit less of that and a bit more fighting than he's done in quite a while. 

Plus he has some anger issues to work out.

Given all of this, having Strike Team Delta back untethered from SHIELD is the best part of his new life. He hadn't realized how close he had become to Clint and Natasha over the years until he'd found himself standing in front of a carved-up wall, missing them with an ache like a gunshot wound. Having them back is like morphine, a balm that heals as well as soothes, and they manage to kick ass and take names scarily and efficiently enough to impress even Captain America himself. Phil would be fanboying over Rogers if things were any different, but that reunion, that kiss that had led to blushing and stammering and shy dances on both sides largely takes precedent over Phil's childhood role model. 

It's the only kiss he and Clint had ever shared. Phil wasn't oblivious, of course he'd noticed Clint's flirting over the years, but he hadn't known that it was anything more than that, anything other than the flirtations he lavished on any other agent that caught his eye. Looking back he realizes that is _was_ different, but he still hadn't realized just how affected Clint would be by his death until it happened. The kiss had been impulsive, reactionary, but the hug that had followed, so tight it bruised his ribs, the tears that had fallen hot on his neck were more heartfelt than anything Phil had ever experienced. 

Natasha laughs at him when he tries to express his confusion, doesn't even let him finish getting the question out. She scoffs, smiles, slaps his cheek gently with great amusement, and that more than anything makes him finally understand. With nothing but silent scolding from the Black Widow he needs nothing more, gets the unspoken message that this isn't a new development, that his attraction to the other man isn't as one-sided as he'd thought. 

Against all odds, he and Clint actually start getting their act together, sit down and talk and admit that yes, there _is_ attraction there, want and hope and fondness. It takes death and resurrection to do it, but they finally, finally have the chance to try this thing out that they've both wanted for years. It doesn't take him long to fall completely in love with the archer – hell, he feels like it's something he's been doing since he brought the man in that night in London so long ago. It's too soon, far too soon, but they've managed a few uninterrupted coffee dates, a few shy, chaste goodnight kisses, and Phil is on the edge of a declaration when everything inevitably goes to hell. 

Clint gets a phone call from some small-town Georgia cop and is packed and on a jet within twenty minutes of hanging up. The only reason Phil manages to board it with him is because he'd been lounging on Clint's couch when he got the call. He knows that Clint's brother Barney lives in Georgia but nothing more than that, and the sick look on the younger man's face keeps him from asking any questions on the silent, unending flight down. 

They meet a detective at the Canton County police station at the crack of dawn the next morning, and Clint is informed that his brother has taken his own life. Nine hours prior, his wife Shelly, Clint's sister-in-law, had died in childbirth. Clint, who hadn't even known his brother was expecting a child, breaks down in the middle of the police station and sobs, and there's nothing Phil can do but keep an arm around him and keep him upright. Some thirty minutes later, when Clint has managed to pull himself together and tuck his emotions away behind his special agent mask, he's given a cup of shitty, breakroom coffee and the letter that Barney had written him in a moment of anguish and desperation. 

"I don't want to know how he did it," Clint whispers hoarsely, fingering the edges of the folded paper as he and Phil sit behind a cheap card table in an empty interrogation room. "But..." 

"That's your decision Clint," Phil says quietly, though truthfully he wants to take the letter and burn it, as if that would destroy all the pain being heaped upon the man's shoulders. 

Clint turns, very suddenly meets Phil's eyes with all the shining focus and intent that Hawkeye has always brought to anything, and asks him a question Phil isn't expecting. 

"Would you read it for me? Phil would you... it's not fair but would you read it for me and then... tell me if you think I should?" 

"Are you sure?" he asks, stunned, his heart thundering in his chest. "Clint that..." 

"Phil please? I trust you." 

And well, how can he refuse in the face of that? When you boil it down that's really all he's ever asked of Clint himself, since the very beginning – to trust him. Swallowing, he nods and reaches out to take the letter, has to wrap his free hand around Clint's fingers to ease them loose. He sighs, trembles when it's finally out of his grip, and it's almost like Phil has sucked up all his anxiety, all his nervousness, the weight of this task suddenly crushing his chest but he can't say that he regrets it. 

Unfolding the sheet of blue stationary, narrow, like that of a pad of shopping list paper, he pushes away everything he knows about Barney Barton and sets about trying to decipher the scratchy, uneven penmanship of a man who's just lost everything worth living for. 

 

_Hey bro._

_I know what you're thinking. I've thought it too. You're thinking, time, just... just give it time. It hurts now, but with time..._

_But fuck Clint, it does hurt. Never loved someone like I loved Shelly, and I don't know how to be without her. Never was much of a good man but now, without her... It wouldn't work little brother. We're Bartons, you know what we're like. I wouldn't be able to do it kid. Not without her._

_She... she's gone Clint._

 

Phil has to pause, take a breath. Tear stains smudge the ink, the handwriting becomes progressively shakier as he moves down the page, and he can't help but feel sorry for a human being so in pain. He wonders, not for the first time, just how bad it had been when he himself had been killed, how badly Clint had suffered from that event. Natasha won't tell him, Clint avoids talking about it, but seeing him like this now, suffering this second loss in so short a time... 

He doesn't count himself on the same plane as Barney. Their relationship is not as good, not as bad, it's just different. But Clint has always felt things so cleanly and honestly, so openly... he worries, especially with the way the man is hunched over, face buried in his hands as Phil reads. 

 

_Listen, don’t be mad ok? It's not your fault. Didn't call cause I knew you'd blame yourself when you couldn't make it here in time, when you couldn't save me, but you couldn't Clint, you hear me? You couldn't when we were kids, you couldn't now. Even if you'd stopped me, you wouldn't have saved me._

_For what it's worth, I'm sorry. Did my best, tried..._

_I'm proud of you kid, of the man you are. It's the reason we named you legal guardian. You'll do better for that baby than I ever could._

_Her name is Francis._

_I asked, Shelly said yes._

_She loved you, you know. We both did. _

_Tell her about her mom ok? Tell her about Shelly. She... she was amazing Clint but fuck, you... you knew that. When you tell her about me, hell, if you tell her about me... just tell her I loved her ok? Please._

_Your brother,_

_Barney_

 

Phil blows out a long breath, feels his own hands tremble. That was... that was far more than he'd expected from the man he'd thought Barney Barton to be, and he realizes that in the last few years, in the time he's been gone, the man _had_ changed. Realized for the first time that perhaps Barney wasn't quite the villain Phil had made him up to be in his mind, in his compromised defense of Clint. He'd been just as much a victim as his brother, a child who had been through untold horrors and had tried his very best to protect, to provide. 

It's hard, in the face of that letter, to hold a grudge. 

"It's still your decision to read this or not Clint," he says carefully, placing his free hand on the man's spine and stroking his back lightly. "But I don't think you'll be sorry if you do." 

Clint lifts his head, eyes shining, looks between Phil's face and the letter several times before nodding shakily and taking it back. Phil doesn't take his hand away as Clint reads, offers him that anchor, that point of contact, more for his own peace of mind than anything else. He fears this, fears what's to come, fears that Clint might fade away into memory or loss if he isn't careful. 

Clint finishes the letter and folds it closed, makes a small, strangled sound as the edges crumple in his grip. Breathing out, he tucks the paper away inside his jacket and puts his hands on his knees instead, his knuckles white. 

"What do I do now," he whispers, his voice cracking. "How do I..." 

"We speak with the police," Phil murmurs, already planning out how best to handle this, how to take as much of this burden from Clint as he could. "They said there was a will; that will have their last wishes laid out." 

Unable to stop himself any longer, Phil lays his hand on Clint's arm and tugs until he gets him turned sideways on his chair, pulls him into a hug. Clint is stiff in his arms, shivering, pulling away, but he tries not to read too far into that, lets him go after a few seconds. 

"I need to go," he mumbles suddenly, and Phil's heart squeezes in his chest, he sounds so far away. "I need to... I need to go." 

Scrambling to his feet he almost makes the door but Phil catches him before he gets there, grabs him by the arm and pulls him back. Clint struggles, doesn't hit him even though Phil sees him check the impulse, wrenches his arm away instead. 

"Let go!" he yelps, twisting away and scrabbling at the door knob. "Phil lemme go! She's all alone up there!" 

The world stops. 

It's as if Clint's words cut both their strings – Phil freezes, his grip going slack as understanding rushes through his mind, and Clint's knees buckle. He sinks to the ground with a weak, strangled cry, wrapping his arms around himself tight as he sobs, rocking back and forth. 

"She's all alone up there," he chokes, and Phil sinks to his knees beside him, wraps him up tight in a grip that threatens to never let go. "They'll take her away Phil, they'll... they'll put her in the system if I..." 

"Easy," he shushes, petting Clint's hair, his heart breaking. "We won't let that happen. We won't let that happen Clint." 

"No, you don't... you don't understand, she... she's _alone_ Phil. I have to... I have to go get her, I..." 

"Ok. Ok, listen. Listen to me Clint, are you listening?" 

Phil grabs Clint's face in his hands, pulls it up until he meets his gaze, tears streaming down the archer's cheeks. He feels awful using his handler's voice in that moment but he needs Clint calm, needs his brain in gear instead of just his heart. 

"Everything's going to be ok," he whispers, his thumbs stroking away the tears. "The baby is safe at the hospital, and there are things you need to take care of here. Now I'm going to go call that police officer back to start all that, and while he speaks with you I'm going to call the hospital and let them know we'll be there to pick Francis up tomorrow morning." 

"I can't... Phil I..." 

"Yes you can. Yes you can Clint. You're the most incredible, resilient man I have ever had the pleasure to know, and you absolutely can. We'll deal with the will, and Barney and Shelly's funeral wishes, and I'll make sure all the paperwork is in order. When that's done we'll check into a hotel and you'll get a good night's sleep, and tomorrow, we'll go get your niece." 

Pressing a hard, desperate kiss to Clint's forehead, he breathes out and lets him go. 

"You have time Clint. We'll figure out how to get through this." 

Clint manages a nod but doesn't reply, and it takes him longer to get to his feet than it should, but once Phil gets him back into one of the plastic chairs in the corner he can see him retreating, locking all those emotions up in a box and narrowing his focus in on the task at hand. He's seen him do it before, knows he needs that compartmentalization now to get through these next few days, but it frightens him and he doesn't know how to reconcile those two sides of it. 

"I'll be right back," he promises, and Clint jerks his chin, doesn't once look up at him as he leaves the room.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end Phil is glad of his SHIELD connections, his position as Avengers liaison and his experience in cutting through red tape. 

It makes things... easier. 

While Clint attempts to get his head together and deal with the immediate aftermath of his brother and sister-in-law's deaths, Phil quietly deals with the rest behind the scenes, making sure that when they go to the hospital the next morning there won't be anyone standing in the way of them taking little Francis Barton home. He knows Clint, and knows the baby will be his first priority, even if he has to bottle everything up and pack it away to fester. 

It will come to a head eventually, all come boiling out of him in a wave of hurt and anger, but he'll keep it buttoned down until he, and the baby, are somewhere he considers safe and stable. 

They don't speak about it that night. Clint refuses to eat anything at all and crawls into his double bed without a word to Phil. He lies awake on his own mattress for several hours listening to the other man's breathing hitch, but he doesn't know how to fix this thing, doesn't know how to make it better. 

Barney Barton had all the legalities worked out – Phil will give him that. Officer Wright had confided in him in a low, quiet voice that they'd found three neatly labeled folders laid out on the Barton kitchen counter next to the suicide note, containing the Last Will and Testament of each of the adults as well as the paperwork naming Clint their newborn's legal guardian. Clint just needs to sign, and he's said he'll do so in the morning. Wright had offered to meet them at the hospital to facilitate the safe collection of little Francis but Phil had declined – legally Clint already has temporary custody as Francis' next of kin; they'll have time for all the rest. 

Wright _had_ connected him with the appropriate nurse by phone however, saving Phil several transfers and a lot of hold time. As Clint's medical proxy, his SHIELD handler, and gatekeeper to all of the Avengers, he was close enough to being Clint's lawyer to request information and receive it with the officer's health. Three weeks premature, and after a traumatic birth, the infant is tiny and susceptible to infection, but currently stable and in comparatively good health. She's mature enough to be released in the morning with the appropriate paperwork, and the nurse had been pleased to learn that she would have access to the best medical care in the country. 

He hadn't told Clint any of this. The archer had been pale and wide-eyed, shivery and wary as they'd made their way from the precinct back to their hotel room. He had orbited around Phil like the push of a magnet, keeping a significant amount of space between them, clearly unwilling to be touched, and Phil had respected that even though it was like a sucker punch to the center of his chest. He didn't know what that meant but it hurt. 

Still, there was no way he was going to put that on Clint now. 

He lets the man sleep in as long as he can the next morning; he'd been visibly exhausted the night before and doesn't look that much better when he finally wakes up around ten, after a night of fitful sleep. Phil chivvies him into the shower, sets out towels and clean clothes before retreating back into the bedroom, ordering up coffee and breakfast. He doesn’t mean to coddle him but when Clint emerges damp and unshaven with a frightened look on his face, Phil can see the fractures in his resolve. 

"Eat," he says simply, a familiar command from a hundred other missions, a hundred other injuries and illnesses. 

He pours Clint coffee - black, two sugars - fills his plate; two sausage links, a small scoop of scrambled eggs, a single almond croissant. Protein, enough to keep him going, but not too much on a queasy stomach that doesn't want food at all. The archer scowls but picks up his fork, shovels it slowly but determinedly into his mouth, no doubt not tasting a bite. Phil isn't all that interested in his own breakfast but he eats as well, more to set an example than anything. 

Finished, they pack up and check out silently, and as they climb into their rented SUV Phil is painfully aware that he can't remember Clint's last words to him. The archer is normally impossible to shut up, and the quiet is like a gaping chasm between them. 

They're halfway to the hospital when it breaks. 

"Wait, stop, _stop,"_ Clint yelps, jerking upright in the passenger seat. "We can't... I mean we need a... like one of those seat things don't we? Phil? Those little carrier seats for the car?" 

His voice cracks on the last three words, and he quickly devolves into a panic attack from there. Phil finds a McDonald's and pulls into the parking lot, shutting off the car and getting out to come around to Clint's side. Opening the door he shoves the man's head down between his knees and lets him grip his hand until his knuckles ache, quietly counting out his breaths for him until he can do it for himself. He's shaking and there are tears in his eyes that haven't quite spilled over yet, but they're threatening to and Phil doesn't know how to fix this. 

"I can’t do this," he sobs, "Phil I can't... I don't know anything about this, how can I..." 

"Hush, hush," he murmurs, hugging him close and taking his own comfort from the embrace. "Breathe. We'll figure this out Clint – you aren't alone, ok? We'll figure this out." 

He sniffles and hiccoughs until he pulls himself together, scrubbing at the tear-tracks on his cheeks. Sitting back, pulling out of Phil's arms, he visibly steels himself, nods his thanks, and that seems to be that. Phil rounds the hood of the car with a heavy heart and climbs back behind the wheel, programming the GPS to take them to the nearest Target store, luckily only ten minutes out of their way. Before he starts the vehicle he finds his tablet, squeezes Clint's shoulder and connects to Jarvis. 

"How can I help you Agent Coulson?" the AI asks, and Phil knows he's not imagining the concern in his tone. 

"Jarvis, Clint and I need some resources on how to care for a premature infant, about thirty-seven weeks old," he says, and the moment's hesitation in response belies the computer program's surprise. 

"Certainly Agent. I shall compile a list of reading sources and have them sent to your servers immediately." 

"Thank you. If you could compile a comprehensive shopping list as well we'd appreciate it." 

"Shall I prioritize it Agent?" 

"Please." 

"Downloading now. May I relay an estimated return for yourself and Agent Barton?" 

Phil flicks Clint a glance but he's tensed up in his seat, refuses to look at him, so Phil shakes his head. 

"No. We're not certain when that will be just yet, but we'll keep you updated." 

"Of course. If I can be of any further assistance please do not hesitate to ask." 

"We won't. Thank you Jarvis." 

"You're welcome Agents." 

Two seconds later that tablet pings and Phil opens the attachment, finds a neatly categorized list of items necessary for caring for an infant. Jarvis has conveniently scripted the file so that the term 'shopping list' is quite apt – all Clint will have to do is tap on an item he wants from the list and the top ten recommendations will appear. Another tap and they'll be added to a list to be ordered, which no doubt will make it back to the Tower before they do. 

At the top of the list Phil types in Francis Barton and chooses _'girl,'_ before turning to Clint and gently touching his forearm. 

"Pick a color," he murmurs, because it's an easy place to start and he expects _'purple'_ to roll of the man's tongue as easy as breathing. He's surprised then, when Clint lifts his head, stares out the windshield, and quietly murmurs _'yellow.'_

Phil nods, adds the parameter to the file, and carefully places the tablet into Clint's hands. 

"Here," instructs softly. "You work on this; I'll drive. We'll pick up a car seat and then we'll head to the hospital." 

Clint blinks several times, licks his lips, then nods and adjusts his grip, starts scrolling. Phil tries not to keep track as he drives across town to the store, but he's glad that at the very least Clint isn't just checking off every single item on the list. His brain is finally working, not just his heart, and as much as it sucks it's a good thing. 

By the time they get to Target Clint's found the best safety-rated seat they have – though Phil doesn't doubt that as soon as Tony Stark and Pepper Potts catch wind of this thing there will be a new one on the market very soon after. He wastes no time snatching the thing off the shelf and zipping through the self-check-out, and is unboxing it and getting it set up before Phil even gets the car started. 

He stumbles outside the hospital. 

Clint Barton, the man who grew up on high-wires and horseback, who can step off a high-rise into thin air without a flinch, stumbles. 

"You can do this," Phil murmurs, one hand on Clint's shoulder. "Clint. She's waiting for you." 

He sees the moment he puts the fear away, the moment he buckles it down in order to become what he thinks his niece will need. In the short-term he's right – she needs the delicate medical care and specific nurturing necessary for a preemie – but in the long run? 

Clint's going to have to feel it eventually, to work past the hurt and the anger and find some love for the little girl his brother has left behind. He can do it – Phil knows he can do it – he knows how Clint took care of the other kids in the orphanage, at the circus, even now whenever he comes across one on an op. 

But it will _hurt,_ and if there's one thing Clint Barton doesn't need any more of in life it's hurt. 

"Let's go." 

They find the nurse easily enough – they came in on the NICU so as soon as Clint gives his name there's a flurry of tittering nurses come to greet them. The glassy-eyed detachment Clint presents them with seems to do little to dissuade them, as does the stony professionalism Phil offers. They flutter about, petting and cooing and sympathizing, and Phil can hear Barney and Shelly's names being bandied around but he hopes Clint can't. When he finally latches on to the charge nurse and gets them moving up the hallway toward the nursery things cool – she's as sharp-eyed as he is and sends the others scurrying with a glare. 

"Here we are," she says with a small gesture, and Phil is... struck. 

They're standing in front of a glass panel and inside there's a double row of incubators, eight of them occupied by a tiny baby capped in either pink or blue. Eight _tiny_ infants, sleeping or wriggling or sucking their thumbs and they're just so... so _small._

He realizes all at once that he's spent all this time preparing Clint for this moment as best he can, and hadn't realized that he would need to prepare _himself._

He doesn't allow himself to think about the daydreams, doesn't allow himself to associate this moment with all those idle hopes of maybe, one day standing here with Clint, holding hands that wore matching rings, hearts full. 

It's not the same but it... 

It feels like it _could be,_ and that scares him more than anything he's ever faced. 

"Wh... which one...?" Clint stammers, and fuck it, he can't _not_ take the man's hand, thread their fingers together and hold on tight. 

The charge nurse seems to understand that this is hard – not the happy meeting of most new parents. She points silently, and Phil looks back up in time to see another nurse approach the incubators, pick up one of the baby girls in the front row nearest the window. Clint's breath catches in his throat and he grips hard at Phil's hand, and he can feel him shaking from that single point of contact. 

"That's..." 

He can't finish, but the nurse seems to understand. 

"Francis Edith Barton," she replies softly, and Clint whimpers. 

Edith had been his mother's name. 

"Would you like to meet her?" 

Clint turns, looks to him, and once again Phil is struck by a great wave of emotion that squeezes at his heart; pride and gratitude and fear and love. 

"It's ok?" he asks without looking away, staring at Phil like he's the one with the answers. "We won't... make her sick or anything." 

"As long as neither of you are sick, and you're both vaccinated," the nurse replies. "We'll bring her into a nursing room so it will just be the three of you. Your niece is actually doing very well Mr. Barton. She's a tough little one." 

"Of course she is," Phil murmurs, staring into Clint's huge, frightened eyes, a smile tipping at the corner of his mouth. "She's a Barton." 

"Yeah," Clint nods, repeating the gesture for the nurse. "Yeah, ok."


	3. Chapter 3

The nurse leads them into a little room down the hallway that's painted a pale, soft blue and is largely dominated by a white rocking chair and changing table in one corner. It's small but comfortable, broadcasting none of the sterility of a hospital, and there's even a window overlooking a park that provides a nicer view than most you would get in New York, all full of greenery and life. 

Phil wonders if maybe that isn't the point, even as he watches Clint pace a few nervous loops around the narrow space. His arms are wrapped tightly around his ribs, his fingers tapping against his elbows the way they tap against his bow, and he doesn't know whether he ought to reach out to him or not. 

He's spared the pain of indecision when there's a light knock at the door, and the nurse steps back in with what appears to be a bundle of fluffy pink blankets in her arms. 

"Come sit down sweetheart," she says, gentle but firm, and Phil suppresses a smile at how obviously in-control she is. It's a relief knowing there's someone else here who fully understands their job and their role, who clearly has experience in wrangling nervous fathers. 

Shit, _father._

That's what Clint is now, whether he knows it or not. 

That... 

It's strange how much that fits. 

Phil keeps this thought to himself as Clint awkwardly arranges his body in the rocking chair, all tight angles, one foot tucked up underneath him – the picture of anxiety. The nurse touches his shoulder, then slowly bends his arm, maneuvers him into position. 

"There you go," she says quietly. "That's perfect." 

Turning beside him, she slowly lowers the bundle of blankets into the crook of his elbow, ignoring the way that Clint's eyes go wide and terrified in favor of getting the baby secure. 

"Just like that. Now, just make sure you support her head, and you should be fine." 

"Wait, you're _leaving?"_ Clint yelps, and the baby in his arms instantly wriggles and wails, a sharp, high sound that immediately causes Clint's face to crumple. 

"Shh, hush now," the nurse murmurs, all steadfast calm, and it's very obvious that her words are directed at both Clint and the baby. She strokes her hand over the infant's head, a tuft of chestnut colored hair just visible over the edge of the blankets, then actually does the same to the full-grown man holding her. 

"Relax," she says quietly, touching the toe of her sneaker to the rocking chair's runner, setting it to swinging at a gentle, easy rhythm. "You're doing just fine. This bit isn't as hard as you think, I promise." 

"I don't know anything about this," Clint whimpers miserably, even as the baby quiets in his arms. "How do I..." 

"You're already doing it," the nurse says kindly. "Your niece is beautiful Mr. Barton. She's a fighter. Here, just..." 

As Phil watches, the nurse takes Clint's free hand and moves it to the baby's chest, rests it there lightly until suddenly a tiny pink hand reaches out and wraps itself around his forefinger. Phil is pretty sure the world stops in that moment, his heart and his breath all going slow and syrupy, and a light comes into Clint's eyes like he's never seen before. He feels himself choking up and has to give himself a mental shake, sure that him going to pieces is the last thing Clint needs, but damn if the man isn't a natural. 

"There," the nurse murmurs again, her hand still on Clint's shoulder, and Phil takes note of her name – Connie – because he's certain she deserves a bouquet for her work today. "You see? Just like that." 

And yes, as panicked as he looks, Clint's already gotten the hang of this. Phil has seen Clint's large, rough hands do small, intricate work before, but nothing like this. He's never seen them so gentle as they are now, as he cradles baby Francis against his chest. She looks far too tiny in his arms, too fragile, even as the tension goes out of Clint's shoulders and he finally breathes, sighs with relief. 

"She's so small," he says, low and rough and aching, echoing Phil's own thoughts. "Is she..." 

"She came along a bit early," Connie replies, taking a careful step back. "But she's doing well. You'll need to be a bit careful with her, keep an eye out for problems, but you should be able to take her home with you." 

"What do I..." 

"We've gotten a doctor who specializes in premature births on retainer," Phil offers quietly, stepping in, and Connie nods approvingly though Clint looks rather confused. It's what Phil does though isn't it, plans ahead, prepares? He'd instructed Jarvis to make a standing appointment with a pediatrician (and a counselor) before they'd even gotten to the hospital. "Any immediate instructions?" 

"We've started her on an infant formula – Enfamil," she says, taking a small notepad from her pocket and a pen from her bun. "I recommend you stick with the brand; it's one of the best out there. If you do decide to change it, you need to do it slowly and gradually." 

"Understood," Phil agrees, stuffing his hands in his pockets, because Clint has started to stroke a single finger down the baby's cheek and he wants to scoop them both up and hold them close. "I'm familiar with the concept." 

"Excellent. Her oxygen levels are good and she's not so very early, so in general you can care for her like any other baby. Keep her warm and dry, limit exposure to anyone who's ill, make sure you always support her head. Have either of you ever heard of kangaroo care?" 

Phil shakes his head, glances at Clint, but the archer is in another world entirely, his cheek pressed gently to his niece's head, his eyes closed as he murmurs to her in near silence. 

"I recommend it to all my new parents, but there's a lot of research out there that sees it being extremely beneficial to a preemie's health," she says, still scribbling away in her notebook. "Skin-to-skin contact, as much as she can get. It increases the parent-child bond, can improve immunity and appetite, and it's even been seen to reduce symptoms like colic." 

"Really?" 

"Mm. I can send you some articles if you'd like. Most important is to make sure she's warm enough, but if you can lie her down on your chest for an hour or two every day I think you'll see results. It might sound a bit... animalistic I suppose, but for her to feel your skin, hear your heartbeat, smell your scent – it's good for her." 

"I'm familiar with that as well." 

Connie lifts an eyebrow in his direction but Phil doesn't comment further, tries not to get lost in memories of Clint come back off a bad mission, druggy and hurt, so much more tactile than he usually is. It doesn't work – he finds himself drifting closer despite all his reserve, till he comes to stand just at Clint's side, his hand lighting on his shoulder. 

"She's so tiny Phil," he chokes, voice hoarse as his fingertips skate over the blanket wrapping his niece up snug. "I mean, look at her..." 

"She's beautiful," he murmurs, because really, what else can he say. 

Baby Francis is indeed the smallest infant Phil has ever come across, though that unit of measurement doesn't do her justice. She's pink and fragile, with dark eyelashes lying thick against her cheeks, her head fitting perfectly into the curve of Clint's palm. She's perfect; soft wispy hair, tiny fingernails perfectly shaped, hands so small she can barely wrap her fingers around Clint's thumb. She's sleeping peacefully in the crook of Clint's elbow, so sweetly unaware of the turmoil all around her, and she's just... 

"Sh... she's perfect." 

"Breathe agent," Phil warns, because shit, he knows that tone, knows that fear. 

A quick glance around tells him that Connie-the-Nurse has slipped away – he thanks his gods for women with that kind of professional intuition – and it's only some quick action and a burst of bravery that has him smoothly scooping little Francis out of Clint's arms before the freak out really starts to take hold. 

She hardly makes a fuss as Phil slips his arms beneath her and lifts her against his chest, doesn't even squeak. He's distracted by the way she nuzzles against his shirt, snuffles at him, but Clint is already up and pacing in front of the windows, looking pale and horrified and green around the gills all at once. 

"I can't do this; Phil I can't do this!" he shakes, his hands actually trembling as he throws them up in the air, rakes them through blonde locks that have gotten just a little too long. "I know you said... but she's... and I can't..." 

"Clint," he says calmly, as sharp as he can without startling the sleeping infant in his arms. "Look at me." 

Clint freezes, his shoulders tight, but it's Phil's _pay-attention-agent_ tone, and he's never ignored it before. His chest is heaving, his hands, fuck, his hands shaking, and he's got his eyes shut tight as he can like he can't bear to look. 

"Clint." 

It only takes two steps to make it to his side, for Phil to lay his hand on his shoulder and squeeze. Clint turns his head away but Phil's not letting him get away with it that easily, not letting him run again from his own insecurities. They've come so far together from the scrawny, frightened mercenary he once was, and Phil understands that this situation is all kinds of messed-up and that it brings those insecurities back out – of course he does – but they can't go back there, they can't. He can already see it – Clint with withdraw, go inside himself, cut himself off from help, from his friends, from _Phil..._

Very suddenly his heart is pounding and he's a little bit panicked himself, everything he could lose ghosting in front of him like a taunt, like a tease. 

He doesn't think, just acts, grabs Clint's collar and hauls him in close, crushes their mouths together in a harsh, heated kiss that almost hurts. There are tears running hot on Clint's cheeks and his teeth bite at Phil's lower lip, and his fingers bite into Phil's waist just as sharply where he clutches at him, but he doesn't care. He keeps hold of Clint's shirt, keeps him close, presses their foreheads together to stare into eyes that are wide and clear and fearful. 

"You are the most competent, capable man I have ever met," he says quietly, mindful of the baby cradled protectively between their chests, just starting to squirm. "You learn, and you adapt, and face any challenge that comes your way head-on. You have achieved so much since I first met you." 

Slowly, his hand slips from Clint's collar up his neck and around to cup his jaw. 

"I couldn't have fallen in love with anyone less," he murmurs. 

Clint startles, blinks and makes to pull away, but Phil keeps pace with him and shifts forward, cuddles close as best he can with baby Francis in the crook of his arm. 

"I love you," he says again, unsure where this sudden bravery has come from despite having wanted to say it for some time. "And I _promise you,_ we can do this." 

"I..." 

He doesn't get to finish. 

Nurse Connie comes tapping quietly back into the room, brandishing a bottle and looking a bit shame-faced at having interrupted a moment, but Phil isn't upset with her. On the contrary, she's just earned herself a double-delivery of flowers – he might even spring for a fruit bouquet. Her reappearance offers Clint a break, an out, an opportunity to get himself together and collect his thoughts, and he needs that, as much as Phil might want some affirmation. He has no right to demand reciprocation from his archer – it was actually a bit cruel of him to spring his declarations right now, in this most emotional of moments. The man had just lost his brother, and his sister-in-law, gained custody of a tiny, tiny baby... 

A baby he is now carefully retrieving from Phil's arms under the careful direction of the nurse, sitting back down with her in the rocking chair and snugging her up against his chest. Phil watches in silence as he offers little Francis the bottle provided, listens with half an ear to all the instruction and advice being offered. It's hard to pay attention in a moment like this, his lips tingling and his heart all full-up, because as he watches the two together, watches Clint's face all intent on what he's doing and a little girl's green eyes blinking sleepily, he realizes that Clint isn't the only Barton he's fallen so damn hard for.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil hates leaving Clint alone to go back to the car for the carrier, but he thinks it might be good to give him am minute alone with his niece. Phil thinks he may have... shown more of his heart than he’d meant to back there – aw, who is he kidding, he’d folded. He’d all but out-and-out proposed, told Clint he loved him and made it pretty damn clear that he means to stick around and help him raise a baby – all that was really missing was a ring. 

Phil swallows hard, thinks about the ring he _had_ stopped to look at in a shop window the other day, the one he hadn’t purchased because no matter how hard the urge had hit him, it was too soon. They’ve barely dated, haven’t shared more than a couple of kisses, and yet... 

And yet he knows, as surely as he’s ever known anything, that Clint is the man he wants to marry. 

They haven’t slept together, but he’s been wrist-deep inside him holding his body together as Clint tried valiantly to bleed out on the floor of a medivac. 

They haven’t made any promises, except that Phil had promised a long time ago that he would _always_ be there for Clint. 

They haven’t _said_ what they are to each other, only Phil just did, and Clint... 

Clint hadn’t said anything back. 

Phil has to physically stop himself from punching the side of the SUV, grips the edge of the doorframe until his hand aches instead. 

That’s not fair, he knows it’s not, but it doesn’t stop his heart from trying to break, doesn’t stop his head from screaming out in desperate anguish, _please, please..._

Phil takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders. 

Even if Clint doesn’t feel the same way, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t headed there. He was dating Phil for a reason, and he had been openly, genuinely happy all those times Phil had dropped him off after coffee or showed up to hang out on his couch. He’d even ben looking forward to the nice dinner Phil had planned to take him to this weekend, even though he hated any restaurant that required a reservation on principal. 

So no, maybe Clint wasn’t there yet, but they had been on their way, he’s sure of it. 

This, his brother and sister-in-law's death, might put a hold on that, but Phil would have to be a real class-act to ditch someone in the middle of a crisis, let alone Clint Barton, the asset he had sworn to never leave behind, the incredible man he had fallen in love with. 

This panic, this nauseating fear, was just silly. 

Clearing his throat, Phil straightens himself out, shoots his cuffs and smooths down his tie. He wants nothing more than to be home, in Avengers Tower in a pair of sweats and one of Clint’s t-shirts, all three of them safe, but he’s learned over the years that simply _looking_ like you now what you’re doing, that you have a right to be where you are and doing what you’re doing, could get a man a long way. 

Unlocking the carrier from the seat base that remained strapped in tight, Phil locked up the car and headed back inside, half afraid that Clint, and possibly even the baby, will have disappeared into the ductwork. He’s immensely relieved when he finds Connie, the charge nurse, still in the room, teaching a terrified looking Clint how to burp baby Francis. 

“You want me to _hit_ her?” he squeaks just as Phil walks in, eyes wide. 

“No,” she chuckles with a gentle smile, “It doesn’t hurt her. In fact, not burping a baby can have severe health consequences. You’re doing her a service, trust me.” 

“Phil,” Clint whines, frantic eyes searching him for permission, and Phil smiles too. 

“It’s completely normal Clint,” he says, setting the carrier down on the floor and moving to stand beside him. “My sister burped all three of her kids, and they turned out fine. Here.” 

Phil touches his arm, guides him slightly forward and off the back of the chair so that he can pat the flat of his palm against Clint’s shoulder blade, careful to convey the right pressure and a good tempo. 

“Just like that,” he says quietly, watching Clint’s face as his eyes go far away, the thousand-yard sniper-stare he gets when he’s completely, entirely focused. “Not too hard, not too fast.” 

“You’ll need this,” Connie says with a teasing smile, laying a burping towel over Clint’s shoulder. “There, now prop her up on your shoulder... just like that.” 

Phil puts his hand on the back of Clint’s neck – he looks unbearably nervous, like he thinks he’s about to do something unforgiveable – and Phil hates that look more than anything. To be fair, little Francis does look terribly fragile, and probably is, but a gentle burping won’t kill her, no matter what Clint thinks. 

“Very good,” Connie murmurs, putting her hand over Clint’s on the baby’s back. “Now, just like he showed you. You can leave the heel of your palm resting on her back, and just...” 

As Phil watches, Clint hesitantly begins to burp his niece, far too lightly to be effective, but at least he’s trying. Connie has a smile on her face – no doubt she’s dealt with more nervous parents – but she’s doing an excellent job with Clint, ignoring his anxiety and giving short, clear instructions. 

“A little harder,” she says, “You should feel a nice little thump. Perfect.” 

Clint stares at the infant on his shoulder, face pale and worried, but Phil doesn’t think even the infamous Hawkeye can bolt from medical with a baby in his arms, so he lets himself relax a little bit, makes sure that Clint can see and feel his ease standing beside him. 

“Like this?” he asks, no confidence whatsoever in his voice, but Connie nods and he pushes on, patting in a steady rhythm. “How long do I... oh my god!” 

To his credit Clint whimpers where Phil can tell he wants to shriek, but he himself has no such luck. He laughs outright at Clint’s horrified expression, heart full of love at the image of his archer with spit-up all over his sleeve. Connie is back in nursing mode, all business, but there’s a smile on her face as she uses the corner of the burping cloth to wipe off little Francis’ face, cleaning her up before she takes her from Clint’s arms and hands him the towel. 

“Well done,” she praises, exactly what Clint needs to hear. “That was just right Mr. Barton.” 

Clint whines, his face falling. 

“I made her puke!” 

“Kind of the point Clint,” Phil chuckles, sliding his arm further around his shoulders, only to pull away and jerk his chin at the mess on the archer’s sleeve. 

“And she just feels so much better,” Connie coos, bouncing Francis a bit in her arms as the baby burbles and waves her hand. “Drinking from a bottle often results in air bubbles being trapped in a baby’s tummy, or in their throat. Burping helps knock those bubbles loose, get them out.” 

“So she’s supposed to...” 

“Yes, that was perfectly normal,” Connie nods, “Though it can certainly be a lot messier. You may want to invest in a bib or find an old towel you don’t want anymore. It will save you a few shirts, and more than a few loads of laundry.” 

“Does she do anything else that’s horrifying?” Clint pouts, swiping at the formula spit up on his shoulder. 

“Oh yes, many, many things,” Connie says softly, her bounce slowing to a rock as Francis drifts off. “Just wait until she’s old enough to start climbing trees or riding a bike.” 

“Better than jumping off buildings,” Phil mutters as he crosses behind Clint to bring the baby carrier forward. 

He laughs – success – but it’s an anxious, half-hysterical sound, and Phil worries that it will be some time before Clint is ever relaxed again. 

Connie helps him place Francis carefully into the carrier and get the little buckles and straps all snug around her, then takes a large bag down from the cabinets behind the rocking chair. 

“Mr. Barton,” she says quietly, stepping over to Clint and holding it out to him. “On behalf of the hospital, I’d like to express our condolences. We know this is a difficult time for you, so we’ve put together a bit of a crash kit. It’s not much, but there should be enough things in here to get you through the next week or so.” 

Phil’s heart drops just a little as Clint’s face crumples, as he squeezes his eyes tightly shut and fists his hands tight around the strap of the bag. 

“Thank you,” he croaks, when he finally pulls himself together enough to look at her a moment later. “For this, but for... taking care of her too.” 

“You’ll do just fine sweetie,” she says, reaching out to touch Clint’s arm. 

Glancing over at Phil, who is already holding Francis’ carrier, she smiles. 

“Keep your friends close,” she advises quietly. “Don’t be afraid to ask for help. You’re going to make mistakes – every parent does – but your niece is strong and healthy and you love her already. The rest will come.” 

Clint nods, lets out a shaky breath, then hugs the nurse so fast she doesn’t have time to reciprocate. As soon as he’s let go he practically runs from the room, only pausing long enough to squeeze Phil’s forearm and look into his eyes, pleading. Phil offers him a short nod and Clint’s gone that fast, and he doesn’t blame him one bit. The archer can be intensely private, and his family has been turned inside out these past few days. He’s going to need time to mourn, to get his head on straight. 

Clint’s always been a runner, but he never leaves. 

“Thank you,” Phil says with more emotion than he thought he had left in him. “That could have gone a lot worse.” 

“He’ll be a natural in no time,” Connie says graciously, picking up the empty bottle and the soiled feeding blanket. “Fear is normal, even healthy.” 

“Yes.” 

“I wish you all the best Mr. Coulson,” she says, heading for the door. “The hospital has spoken with your legal counsel – you’re all set to go. Take her home.” 

Phil blinks, watches her leave. 

Is he that obvious, does it show on his face? 

He doesn’t care. 

She wasn’t wrong – Clint is going to need all the support he can get, and yes, he and the other Avengers are Clint’s friends, but they’re more than that. Phil would bet Lola that Stark will have a nursery halfway installed on Clint’s floor by the time they get back to the Tower, and Banner will have brushed up on his pediatrics. Thor will be attempting to teach himself volume control and Steve will be all eager-faced and awed, and Natasha will probably be waiting with vodka to welcome Clint home. 

They’re family, and they’ll take care of him. 

Making his way carefully out into the parking lot, Phil breathes a sigh of relief when he spies Clint perched on the top of their SUV, watching the doors. He hadn’t been worried that the archer would actually split, but it’s good to have eyes on him again. He hops down when Phil reaches the car and stands pensively beside the open door while he locks the carrier seat back into place, chewing at his lower lip. 

“Are you sure it’s right?” he asks when Phil backs out of the car, knuckles white around the doorframe in the same place Phil had gripped it earlier. 

“It’s right,” he promises, brushing Clint’s cheek with his hand. “Hey. Come here.” 

Pulling Clint into his arms, he lets him hide his face in the curve of his throat, holds him close while he chokes and sobs harshly. It’s obvious to anyone with ears that he’s trying desperately to hold the sound in, but it comes tearing out of him all the same, sharp and pained. 

“I’m so sorry Clint,” he murmurs, petting his hair as tears fall hot on his neck. “I’m so sorry this happened. But it’s going to be ok, I promise.” 

Clint coughs, snatching back his sobs harshly, pressing his forehead against Phil’s shoulder hard before he lets go. 

“Can we go home?” he asks, his hands shaking as he raises them to swipe at his cheeks. “Phil, please? Can you just take me... can you take us home?” 

Phil frowns, his hand still cupping Clint’s cheek as he thinks about the house, the property, the remnants of a life and family that need to be dealt with before he nods. 

“Yes Clint,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss his cheek and picking up the baby bag off the pavement. “I can take us home.”


End file.
